


wherever you may go

by mortalitasi



Category: Neverwinter Nights
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, lots of angst tons of angst but sort of happy ending kind of? implied??, lots of romanza, this is just shamelessly dramatic let me have this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 05:31:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7562260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortalitasi/pseuds/mortalitasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a few things even Cania cannot freeze, and infernal blood is unfortunately one of them. He never wanted this for her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wherever you may go

**Author's Note:**

> this is an oldie but a goodie and i also realized i hadn't uploaded all my nwn snippets on here and that is a crime because i must spam you all with my terrible writing
> 
> enjoy the angst

She is knee-deep in snow red with blood that is not her own.  
  
Even the howl of the wind against the icy crags of the jagged slope seems distant and faint. She cannot feel her hands, her ears, her lips, anything below her thigh. The cold bites through her cleanly and bitterly, its edge catching in her lungs and stealing her breath, little as it is. Palieth can distantly hear Deekin asking her if she is alright, and she offhandedly waves her palm at him for silence. He takes the hint as Nercane circles her feet, the pawprints he leaves in the snow fading away just moments after he moves forward. She knows Nercane’s instinct is to protect her – she can feel it as he presses up against her leg, fur rasping at her clothes.   
  
But if anyone challenges Valen as he is now, she is almost certain that none of them will leave the confrontation alive.   
  
General Shadowbreath is bent at the waist over the body of one of the many devils in a group that they had run across in this miserable, snow-blasted plane; the pale of his smooth cheeks is speckled with crimson, a shade darker than his thick hair, strands of which has escaped its ponytail and is clinging to his forehead. He is panting, clutching the handle of his flail as though it will escape him if he loosens his grip for even a heartbeat. She can hear the wheeze in his breath as he struggles, the tremors wracking his body. He is caught in the throes of a fever she cannot understand nor cure.   
  
The creature sprawled at his feet had its neck snapped by a violent turn of Devil’s Bane, leaving its crooked jaw open in a silent, wordless scream. Its claws are pinned to the ground just a hairsbreadth away from Valen’s boot toe.

She watches Valen as he attempts to distance himself from the body, his legs failing him for an instant as he moves forward. The sound of his breath hissing inward through his teeth is sharp and harsh, uneven. Something inside her strains and breaks as Devil’s Bane falls from his nerveless fingers, falling to the snow in a rush of hushed metal. He trips and falls heavily on his knees, and she sees the impact send a ripple through the line of his shoulders.  
  
For a moment he is still, and then he begins to shake, shake like he is the last of the dry leaves of autumn caught in the early winter’s wind, like the unseen burden sitting on his back is pushing him to the ground; when she hears the high whine of a strangled whimper leave him, she runs from Deekin and Nercane, closing the distance between herself and the General in three long strides that sink deep into the snow.

Her thoughts are too clouded and muddled to think of things like lightness and delicate steps that don’t break snowflakes, and all the measured elegance of a seasoned ranger abandons her. She feels as though she is young and lost again when she drops to her knees before Valen and takes his face between her numb hands.   
  
He is warm. Hot. Burning.   
  
The snow soaks through her leggings and boots and bites at her flesh. She does not care. A bit of his hair catches in her bracer but neither of them notice. She’s never been this close when he has experienced one of his fits. They had just been mild disturbances in the beginning – a shuffle in his step, an instant, terrible backlight in his eyes, a brief pause to wave away some gauzy memory away from his sight – but now it's… it’s this.

The trembling, the gasping, the writhing in pain, the clenched jaw bunched into a tight mass of muscles against her palm; his eyes are scarlet, points of fire in his skull, so bright and frightening it is as though they could bore holes right through her and into the bleak cloudy sky.   
  
“Valen,” she says in an urgent whisper, and it scares her that he does not respond. She brushes the hair away from his face and cups his cheeks again, her hand molding against the curve of his jaw, fingers settling just below the lobe of his pointed ear. “Valen,” she repeats, but the name seems hollow – it’s not enough to call him back, not powerful or potent enough. “Look at me,” she pleads, and his gaze jerks upwards, catching and trapping her.   
  
“Valen. What is this  _Valen_?” he spits in a voice that is a twisted replica of his own. The usual tenor of his tone is there, and so is his strange accent that curls around his words lazily, but the spirit of it is not the same. This is not him.  
  
“I know you are there,” she murmurs, the sound of it nearly drowned out in the sigh of the wind. He snarls and she feels the pull of it against her skin.   
  
“I am more than he could ever be!” he says in a fury, eyes flashing, and he grabs her wrists with enough force that she lets out a surprised grunt when he lifts them both to their feet. His grip squeezes tighter and she feels her fingers flush with a sudden flood of hot blood – the change in temperature is painful and she kicks away from him, her boots connecting over and over again with his shins and knees. She forces logic to cut through the haze of panic shadowing her mind, and her struggles eventually become strong enough that she breaks free.   
  
Palieth is vaguely aware of Nercane’s presence in her mind, asking, imploring her to let him help, but she refuses him without second thought. She had rushed forth despite her better judgment, despite her vow to never again let emotions meddle with her training.   
  
The man lurches forth toward her through the snow, and she cannot stop the precautionary step backward. His hands, clawed and cruel beneath his gauntlets, reach out as though to grasp something that is not there. The spaded tail behind him lashes out and cuts the tops of snow-dunes cleanly away, sending flurries of white spinning wildly into the air. She can feel Enserric stirring against her back, beating against the confines of his scabbard, saying something like, “You’re absolutely barmy, woman! Dotty! Draw me so we might fight him off! Do you hear me?  _Do you hear me?_ ”  
  
But her attention is stolen by the one approaching. His stare is resolute in its frenzy, if such a thing is even possible. She can see him now, how he was in the Abyss, the whole world around him painted crimson with metal and lifeblood. She sees nothing of the Valen Shadowbreath she has come to know in him, and it terrifies her. This entity is made of pain and death, a power born as a harbinger of ends. He is only an arm’s length away, and Enserric is shouting at her to “Move, blast you!” even though it will do nothing.  
  
“Where are they?” he growls, and she realizes, somehow, that he is talking of the devils. “Where are they hiding?  _Blood, flesh! Bring them to me!_  Find – ”  
  
And there he chokes, as though something in his throat has stopped him from talking further. She sees a shock of blue in his eyes and her heart leaps in her breast at the sight. He bends at the waist, hands clutching at his scalp – she sees dots of red in his hair where his clawed fingers have dug in – and his cheek brushes her shoulder. The contact makes him jolt like a white-hot poker has been pressed into his skin, and one of his horns clips her chin on the way up. Pain explodes in her lower jaw, but she blinks it away stubbornly when she hears him trying to move away. She takes him by the elbow and he freezes, unsure of what to do.  
  
“Breathe,” she instructs him even though her voice wavers. “I am here.”  
  
He shakes under her touch, and she draws nearer, offering not warmth but comfort.   
  
“Get – away,” he grits out, shutting his eyes when she shakes her head.   
  
“The Seer needs us.” She lets the sentence settle over him. It’s not enough. She can feel him slipping away. She needs more. Her speech drops to a careful, broken whisper, and she admits her weakness. “I need you.”  
  
Valen shudders and stills and she thinks, for an instant, that it is over. She is proved wrong when she finds that she cannot breathe. His hands are around her throat, tightening, and his face is a mask of hatred. The fingertips of his gauntlets prick into her neck. She gives a choked gasp and scrabbles at the hands holding her. Enserric is shouting again even as he’s rattled around in his scabbard. She can hear Nercane barking himself hoarse.   
  
“Let her go, you bastard!  _You right traitor! Turncoat!_ ”  
  
“Silence!” Valen roars, more to himself than anyone else. The scarlet of his eyes flickers. His grip slackens slightly before it closes around her throat again.   
  
A frost spell hits him in the shoulder (Deekin, stupid foolish faithful Deekin, she thinks) just as Nercane latches himself to Valen’s leg, biting down through the leg-guard and baring his fangs, paws burrowing into the snow as he pulls back. She screams at the wolf to get away, though it only comes out as a coarse rasp of air. Nevertheless, Nercane ducks away just as Valen kicks out, teeth stained red. The relief crashes over her in a mercilessly cleansing wave, but the panic returns when Valen crumples on her, sending them both to the ground.   
  
She lies quiet, willing herself to stay still until he stirs, his breath on her neck melting the snowflakes there. He draws himself upward slowly, blinking dazedly like a newborn awoken from a fitful slumber. She watches as he surveys the scene they created – the blood-spattered snow, the devil’s corpse, Devil’s Bane, abandoned in a snow drift; Deekin, wide-eyed and clutching his lute, magic humming in his palm; and Nercane, the fur on his muzzle dyed a light pink, observing him with cold yellow eyes that do not contain any trust. Whatever respect the wolf had for him is either dead or deeply hidden. He finds he considers the loss grievous no matter the case.   
  
And her. She is sitting in the snow in front of him, shivering in the ruthless cold of Cania, her skin paler than ever before. Her cloak sits around her shoulders haphazardly, like the torn wings of a moth. He sees the red welts on her throat and winces, feeling shame pool in his gut. The elven charm in her hair tinkles as a bitter breeze gusts past them.   
  
“I…” The word breaks and dissolves in his mouth, loses its meaning. “My Lady. I … I am so sorry. So, so…”  
  
Palieth reaches out a hand and he is surprised that she would even  _touch_  him after what happened, but then he realizes that he is weeping, a thing he has not done since he was a child, and there is plain understanding in her face: no judgment, no supreme wisdom or miraculous solutions – just understanding and willingness. She wipes the tears away gently with a hand, ignoring the fact that they frost on the back of her knuckles. More replace them on his cheeks. It feels like they will never stop.   
  
She draws her hands around his neck and pulls him into an embrace. His breath catches at the closeness, and he selfishly allows his arms to circle her waist, his face to be pressed into her shoulder. She smells of velox berries and firewood.   
  
“I thought…"   
  
He knows what she wants to say.   
  
"I’m sorry,” he says again, his voice swallowed up by the fabric of her cloak. The cloth becomes wet soon.   
  
She threads her fingers through his loose hair and lays her cheek against the crown of his head, muttering reassuring nothings as he quakes against her. There had been endless nights, long ago, when he would wake from a rambling sleep with his infernal blood boiling, and the Seer would hold him until the shaking would pass, rubbing slow circles into his back and wiping away the sweat on his brow with the end of her white sleeve.

He would be reminded of his mother – she seems a figure of a faraway past that is not his own – as she would always kiss his cheek as she sent him off to sleep and say, “Goodnight, son. I love you."   
  
It is the first time in years that he acknowledges the ache inside him left by her absence.   
  
He turns his face into the crook of Palieth’s neck and tastes the rawness there. Her astonished gasp rips through him like the clean cut of a newly-whetted blade. There, in the ice and the deepest wastes of forgotten Cania, he renews the unspoken promise he had made to himself when he had first looked upon Palieth and seen more than a traitor. He softly kisses the point where her ear meets her jaw and feels her turn her face to him, pressing her forehead to his.   
  
"We will find the Knower of Names,” she says, the warmth of her breath washing over him. “You will be free.”  
  
“We will,” he says quietly after her, his eyes closing at the tender pressure of her hands.   
  
And for reasons unknown even to him, he believes her.


End file.
